


These Wicked Thoughts

by lady__sansa_stark



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A very sexually frustrated Petyr, Also its 3am I don't have the energy to come up with a summary lol, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Lap dancing, Nightclub / stripclub, Pole Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:14:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady__sansa_stark/pseuds/lady__sansa_stark
Summary: Petyr had gonemad.To be plagued by these wicked thoughts, day and night and asleep and awake. To close his eyes and see the soft cascade of auburn tresses framing her ivory skin. To open his eyes and see the deep oceans of her eyes, his body craving the feel of drowning in them. And open or closed, Petyr could smell the sweetness that lingered on her skin. These thoughts – oh, how they were completely impure and wrong.Oh, how he relished in them.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the song “Porn Star Dancing” by My Darkest Days (sort of? At least it’s the song that I was listening to when this idea came into my head, so it’s partially responsible lol).
> 
> [I hope y'all enjoy my 3am sin ;) ]

 

            Petyr had gone _mad_.

            To be plagued by these wicked thoughts, day and night and asleep and awake. To close his eyes and see the soft cascade of auburn tresses framing her ivory skin. To open his eyes and see the deep oceans of her eyes, his body craving the feel of drowning in them. And open or closed, Petyr could smell the sweetness that lingered on her skin. These thoughts – oh, how they were completely impure and wrong.

            There was a _need_ , an insatiable thing, to taste and feel every single inch of her body. He had an even hungrier desire to get drunk on how she sounded when she came. Would she cry out to the gods, old and new, for her sweet release? Would she forget about the verses the septons ingrained into her mind and instead pray _Petyr Petyr Petyr_ into the night? Or – and he had to admit the sinful twitch of his cock at the fantasy – would she chastise her wicked uncle for leading her down the winding path of lust and depravity?

            Oh, but she wasn’t his niece. Not technically, not by blood. Petyr didn’t _care_. He wanted her, craved her like a drug or drink. Like a scratch made worse when trying to ignore it. But he couldn’t ignore her.

            There had been a time when Petyr would tally those shameful thoughts – two became twenty become a hundred. They grew, multiplied, expanded exponentially until an hour wouldn’t go by without thoughts of soft lips or lithe fingers or the endless expanse of beautiful porcelain skin that was his niece.

            He could see her: sprawled on the sofa, her legs an endless stretch of skin below shorts, her shirt rising to reveal the thinnest stretch of stomach. Or even as she sat, phone pressed to her ear, talking with college friends, her other hand mindlessly running circles across the chair’s arm. How often Petyr stared at the slow ministrations of her fingers and pictured them stroking down his chest before dipping beneath his trousers. He shuddered a sigh. Such _innocent_ acts that Petyr could not help but corrupt.

            Oh yes – Petyr was mad.

            “Gods,” he muttered to himself, sipping on the fresh glass of whiskey. It was the second one, and the show hadn’t even started yet.

            Petyr swirled the amber in the glass as he looked around the club. The vibe in _Elia_ was vastly different than his own _Mockingbird_. Bright colors accented the walls and décor, the soft orange lights dimmed to an almost obscene level of blindness. The music was like any sort of club, but held that distinctive tune popular within Dorne.

            He had lost Oberyn sometime between his first and second whiskey. The Dornish man had been harping Petyr to come on in to _Elia_ and enjoy the wide array of activities. (The club, it should be mentioned, was named after his late sister: a permanent homage to her memory, and a permanent _fuck you_ to the Lannisters up in the Red Keep. Oberyn made sure to keep Elia’s presence alive and strong in King’s Landing).

            “Finally convinced you with my dashing good looks, I see?” the Martell man said when he spied Petyr by the bar. “To think the one and only Petyr Baelish would do the honor of gracing my humble establishment.”

            Oberyn gave a mocking bow, to which Petyr responded with a mocking _fuck off_. Oberyn smiled, patting Petyr on the back. The Dornish man meant to stay and talk, though nightclub logistics took his attention away before he had time to sit down and order a drink for himself.

            Which was fine by Petyr. He hadn’t quite felt like explaining his own logistics for _why_ he caved in to Oberyn’s nagging. Oberyn was a friend, in a loose sense of the word. And Oberyn himself was rather free in his own sexual adventures – although, Petyr thought, his _friend_ might not be much a friend if he discovered the identity of the particular red-haired girl that sent Petyr’s mind into a haze of desire.

            A light shone on the center stage. A pair of Dornish women swaggered towards the light, their breasts full and barely concealed beneath sheer fabric. _Too large_ , Petyr caught himself thinking. But they moved with elegant grace, like water, like a soft breeze. With purpose, made to seem unintentional. Their heads were held high – no matter the sorts of comments or leers aimed at them or their ample breasts. Petyr nodded his approval to no one in particular. He wouldn’t have expected Oberyn’s girls to be the piss-poor performance of the lesser sorts of clubs in King’s Landing. The decorum and the décor were on par with the _Mockingbird_. Almost.

            The women announced in loud, sultry voices that tonight’s event would begin shortly. Men in the crowd hollered and whooped – one shouted _get on with it_. A pair of college-aged girls snuck past Petyr, giggling about some joke or other. “I can’t believe she’s doing it,” one of them said.

            The women continued: “The girls tonight are _not_ the regular girls of _Elia_. You are not allowed to ask them for favors or dances or sex. You are allowed to watch and enjoy.” _And throw your money as you jerk yourselves off_ , Petyr added. He watched the trained women leave – their asses were just as covered as their breasts. Which was to say, they weren’t.

            Were Oberyn to ask if tonight’s event was the reason why Petyr had finally come down to _Elia_ , the man would be half right. Or completely right. Petyr was still debating the numbers, silently praying his motive wouldn’t be put to the question.

            But the event was, apparently, a common thing. Once every month or two, _Elia_ would host amateurs. Girls local or on visit, so long as they were of legal age and filed consent forms. To strut and twirl and dance near-naked in front of strangers. One of his Oberyn’s businessmen must have calculated the want of old, middle-aged men to leer at younger, innocent girls half-naked ten feet before them. And the want was there – the club was full, of middle-aged and older men (and women, though fewer). Petyr wondered if there was an amateur boy night, and thought _yes_ , there likely was. And mixed nights, too, knowing Oberyn.

            Petyr wasn’t one of _those_ creepy old men. Was he? No. Yes? He wasn’t sure – he only wanted _one_ girl in particular. Did that lump him together with the motley of men and women in this room here on a monthly basis for this thing?

            Petyr downed the rest of his whiskey.

            The lights focused on the stage, blinding the girls’ view of the leering men below. A blessing, Petyr thought.

            And girls, they were. Not in body, exactly – some were far more endowed than the Dornish women from earlier - but in form and grace. They didn’t know _how_ to move. They thought too much, too self-aware of their arms and legs and ass. And their brains. Petyr could see the struggle on some of the girls trying to shut their brains off and let their bodies enjoy the thrill of voyeurism.

            And there were a lot of them, a lot more than Petyr would have thought. Ten swaggered out at first, the most brave of them. And as the heavy-bass of the songs thrummed through the club, more girls trickled onto the stage. Wrapping their hands around the poles, teasing the thin fabrics hiding their lovely cunts and asses. Some girls were full-on grinding on each other, which received a huge applause from the crowd.

            And there was Petyr. With an empty glass and warm body.

            He was here thinking perhaps one of the amateurs might have red-hair. He could imagine away the body and imperfections and breast sizes – he could focus solely on the hair and let his mind revel in the fantasy. The completely sinful idea that _Sansa_ , of all people, might debase her purity by coming to a place like this. Volunteering to put her body on display for all the world to see. And – with a painful ache – that Sansa would focus entirely on _him_.

            Perhaps he had been better off jacking off to porn instead. Again.

            But he sat there, unmoving. Waiting for Oberyn to come back? To give him his assessment of his club, businessman to businessman.

            Or waiting in anticipation. Watching the curtain where the trickle of girls was slowing to a halt.

            Whoops and hollers from the room seemed to blend into the thrum of the music. Petyr could feel its pulse in his own blood – a fast-paced thing, almost as fast as his heart. He was scanning the crowd again, and the atmosphere. Petyr was trying to distance himself from the reason why he stepped through the doors in the first place, when he heard the giggles behind him.

            His eyes scanned lazily back to the stage.

            And his heart froze. And sped up. A painful twin beat of too slow and too fast.

            Behind the bodies of girls – twenty, now, at least – strode a tall, pale girl wearing a sheer slip that barely fell below her ass. Her breasts were pushed up in an obscenely sexy bra, her stomach was exposed beneath the shifting fabric.

            And her hair was as red and brilliant as the evening sky.

            It was the whiskey. The whiskey, Petyr told himself, and the hundreds of thoughts he’d had imagining something like this. Imagining _her_ like this tonight.

            It wasn’t her – it couldn’t be, not Sansa, not the pure, sweet girl that blushed anytime he so much as _alluded_ to a sexual joke. Whatever was in the alcohol was doing wonders to the image being transferred from his eyes to his brain.

            Petyr watched as Sansa (it wasn’t Sansa, the sliver of logic kept reminding him – but gods, he didn’t care) approached one of the poles. She was as timid as the rest of them, but held her head forward. Petyr could see the shake of her legs in those heels (good gods), could almost see the tremor of her lips as she moved. Sansa would do that, he thought. She would bite her lip and lick her lips, like how not-Sansa was doing.

            One of the other amateurs, a busty brunette who had been one of the first to enter the stage, gave control of the pole to Sansa. Sansa stared at it for a moment, as if trying to figure out _what_ to do, and how to do it, and regretting not watching the brunette or the other girls. It was only a second that the redhead stared in confusion, but Petyr could read the thoughts in her. Still, she faked the earlier air of gravitas and lightly gripped the pole.

            The girls grinding earlier had enlisted the help of a third girl, a blonde, and their threesome had captivated almost every person in the room. It was borderline pornographic.

            Petyr paid it no mind. His eyes were fixated on the shy girl that ran her fingers along the length of the metal. His eyes were fixated on the swell of her breasts over the white lace, fixated on the motion of her hips as she gave tepid steps around the pole.

            Sansa made sure her hips swayed with each slow step. She made one pass around, two, slow, painfully slow. Petyr couldn’t stop staring – at her hand’s grip on the pole growing more sure; at the endless expanse of her legs; at every detail his brain was clouding reality to make the stranger into _her_.

            Thank the gods for whiskey and a shameless mind.

            Her body was the only thing in the club, save for Petyr. All the lights trained on her – she _was_ the light. The focus of everything and everyone, the cosmos itself, spun around her.

            Sansa found her confidence. She leaned into the pole, lowering herself down until her legs were a sinful spread for whoever sat before her. Suddenly Petyr was jealous of the men sitting by the stage _not_ paying attention to her. At the men so easily fooled by the weak display of girl-on-girl action, and not completely entranced by the ethereal beauty that was Sansa.

            She found a rhythm, novice and slow but sure and tantalizing. Step around the pole, her hips a calculated, over-exaggerated sway. Pause for the slightest moment – letting the anticipation ache inside his trousers - before leaning forward just enough to push her breasts out of the bra. And then lower herself, inch by inch, her legs opening just as slowly, until everything was in view behind white lace.

            Sansa kept her arm high when she moved around it, and Petyr wanted to caress the skin from fingers to shoulder. Wanted to kiss and bite at the pure flesh and mark it _his_.

            Petyr wanted to keep her there, bent against the pole, as he fucked her. The first time, at least. To pin her hands against the pole as Sansa took him in her mouth. Slowly, her virgin lips unused to the taste of cock or the length of him. The feel of her tongue lapping over his head, then along the side as he pushes himself deeper. The sputtered gags as Petyr begins to thrust his hips, her head pinned between him and the pole. The heat of her mouth and the scent of her arousal as she got off sucking him makes his thrusts erratic. Her name would echo throughout the club as Petyr came in her. And like the _dutiful_ niece she was, Sansa would swallow every last drop of him.

            Sansa turned herself this time, bending over her ass for the crowd. For him. Petyr wanted nothing more than to rip the lace from her skin and take her. Here, in front of everyone. To reveal the not-so-innocent girl she truly was.

            Suddenly Petyr wanted to yell at Oberyn: _to hell with your rules._ To demand a private show with not-Sansa. He could see it. He could _feel_ it.

            Sansa wrapping her arms around his neck as she slowly lowered herself onto his lap. She would be wearing that devious lace lingerie – at first, before Petyr either asked her to strip it off or rip it off himself. Petyr would need to buy Sansa an entire closet full of undergarments and slips and fabrics that were a sorry excuse of covering anything up. He just might – he knew her size.

            Sansa biting at his jaw, his neck, while she moved her hips up and down his legs. She would press at his cock, a flighty thing, a teasing thing, before moving back. Forward, and back – his cock a growing ache between them. And just when Petyr was sure he couldn’t take anymore, Sansa would rise. To take off that scrap of fabric: first the bra, revealing one perfect breast at a time. Petyr’s fingers itched, wanting so desperately to feel the softness and tease nipples that were already peaked.

            Then – her back against Petyr, her ass rubbing against his cock. And damn him if he didn’t think about fucking her every way possible. And she knows it – using his deprived mind to get him off and leave him there. On and on Sansa would get him hard with hips and hands and cunt before leaving him, panting and wanting. Oh, what a tease, this niece of his! Oh, but wouldn’t it just feel so much _better_ when, after aching for hours, Petyr finally plunged himself into her. When he finally felt her core convulse around him as they come together, each other’s names a breathy prayer on their lips.

            One night with the red-haired girl, and Petyr would make it last forever. One night with his fantasy, and perhaps Petyr might tamp down those never-ending thoughts and desires.

            At least for a little while.

            What he wouldn’t give for a single night with Sansa. The real, living, breathing goddess of beauty and life. To have her on top of him, under him, screaming his name over and over. For him to learn just the right places to caress with fingers, or bite and lap with mouth. To learn just which position made her come again and again, and which ones made Sansa’s cry of pleasure reverberate into him.

            His cock was a painful press against his trousers. Petyr left the bar and jacked himself off in the bathroom. The thumping music was loud enough to cover the cry of _Sansa_ from his lips.

            Oh _gods_ , he was certifiably mad. Insane. Seeing his niece in every red-haired woman that walked the street and worked the poles. Getting hard just at the sight of her, at the wicked images perverting his mind at every waking hour. Petyr watched the water swirl down and wondered if he could flush away the vile images in his mind.

            But even if he could, he wouldn’t.

            Petyr left _Elia_ , steering clear of Oberyn, who he saw heading towards the bar in search of his friend. There was the smallest shred of decency left within Petyr, and damn if he was going to at least hold onto that for the night.

            He leaned against the wall, the night air blowing sense and calm into his body.

            He laughed. A slow thing that grow maniacal. What a terrible thing he was.

            Petyr stayed there for a few minutes, the laughter dying into the gentle breeze. He could smell the salt from Blackwater Bay. Maybe if he plunged himself in the water it would ease the aching need in him that never went away. Even now, even after coming in the bathroom, he wanted her.

            “Oh. My. _Gods_.”

            He moved his head to the side. A passerby, most likely, but the voice sounded familiar. The door to _Elia_ was cracked open.

            A giggle, and a different voice. “I can’t believe you actually did it. And girl, _damn_ , you were so good!”

            Petyr tried to picture any of the other amateurs on the stage, even the true face of the red-haired temptress, but all he could picture was Sansa.

            The first voice again: “I can’t believe you actually went through with it.” A laugh. “All because you didn’t want to answer _truth_. Gods…”

            They were heading towards Petyr, though Petyr had no intention of moving. His heart was still racing, and he wasn’t looking forward to swinging by the _Mockingbird_ to shower and clean up. Gods-forbid Lysa catch the whiff of sex on him, especially when Petyr was at a ‘very important business meeting’ tonight.

            He still wasn’t convinced Lysa ate his lies easily. But she did.

            “Hey, when I play truth or dare, I don’t back down. You don’t know half the things me and my brothers and sister made each other dare.”

            Petyr’s eyes shot open.

            _No_.

            He scrambled against the wall, heading towards the side alley, ducking in just as the clacking of heels echoed into the night air.

            _No_.

            The second voice: “Girl, honestly though? You went through with it all ‘cause you didn’t want to tell us who you like…”

            First voice again: “ _Technically_ , it’s who she thinks of when she masturbates.” Laughter.

_Yes._

            Third voice – _her_ voice. It was so sweet, so full of laughter it was almost a breath. “And now you’ll never know. Whose turn is it now?”

            A car’s locks _beeped_ open, and the voices cut off as the doors opened and closed. The rumbling of the car was long gone from _Elia_ when Petyr finally rounded out of the alley. He leaned against the wall again staring at nothing in particular.

            Should anybody walk by, they would see a wicked man with a terribly crooked smile plastered on his face.

            Petyr tried for several long minutes to wipe it away, but no matter how hard he tried, it remained.

            He wasn’t sure what set it there. The realization that it _was_ Sansa, turning around the pole and revealing her body to a crowd of complete strangers (for a dare).

            Or the idea that the sweet, innocent girl she pretends to be is no more real than he is the uncle that doesn’t want to fuck his niece senseless.

            Or – better yet – the high chance Sansa had been thinking of Petyr the entire time. Getting off of her own fantasy: that her wicked uncle was in the crowd, his eyes transfixed on her supple breasts and tantalizing cunt hidden by thin fabric. That he would go so far as to jack himself off at the mere sight of her lewd motions. That he would brave the crowd and take her, right then and there.

            He wasn’t the only one with these wicked thoughts.

            Petyr’s laughter echoed into the night.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Petyr you are so owned by Sansa it’s not even funny]


End file.
